


The Fathers of Middle Earth

by Mars_McKie



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Father's Day, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:37:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mars_McKie/pseuds/Mars_McKie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories I wrote for my daddy this Father's Day</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In a hole in the ground there lived two hobbits. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole; it was a hobbit-hole, and that meant comfort. And in this case a bit of mess.

Bilbo Baggins had done his best to clean up before his new guest had arrived, but in the years following his return from his quest to the Lonely Mountain keeping house didn’t seem like the worry it had been before. Nevertheless, he had made an effort today.

At the age of 99 Bilbo started to feel the need to have someone around the house again, and who better than his nephew Frodo Baggins. Frodo’s parents (Drogo and Primula) had died when Frodo had been 12 and in the years that followed he had developed a connection with his uncle Bilbo- they had the same birthday, the same sense of adventure and enjoyed smoke rings together. So now at the age of 21 Frodo had received the invite from Bilbo to live with him at Bag End.

Frodo didn’t have many possessions at Brandy Hall but after second breakfast he packed what he did have into a backpack, made promises to Merry and Pippin that they would see him at the Green Dragon again soon, and set off.

He walked the familiar route through Hobbiton and was soon standing at the door of its new home. He knocked on the perfectly round green door with the shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Frodo heard someone shout from the other side. The door was flung wide open and there stood his uncle Bilbo. “Frodo!” he cried, spreading his arms wide.

“Bilbo!” Frodo rushed into his arms, nearly sweeping the old hobbit off his feet (“Steady on, I’m not as young as I once was!”) and entered into his new home.

The Guest Room off of the West Hall had already been prepared and Frodo made himself quite comfortable. Bilbo prepared a pleasant lunch of fish and chips for them both in the dining room, and after a desert of fancy cakes he stood up.

“I have some business to attend to in town,” Bilbo declared. “Are you happy to spend the afternoon here on your own?”

“Yes, I’ll be quite alright,” Frodo smiled. Though he had visited Bag End some times before he was eager to explore it in much more detail. Bilbo nodded in satisfaction, grabbed his coat from the peg by the door and left.

Frodo felt like a misbehaving child in a turnip field. First he ran through all of the rooms in the house, exploring all of the doors and passageways, and then once he had a map of the hole in his head he began examining each room in more detail. He found a number of silver objects that though they looked impressive stank of something horrible. Sifting through the papers on the table he discovered a leather-bound book and number of notes which looked like Bilbo was planning a story-

_I was sitting down to an excellently prepared dinner of fish and chips, all thoughts of wizards floating out of my head, when suddenly-_

There was a knock at the door.

Frodo nearly jumped out of his skin as he dropped the notes. He hastened to the front door, wondering who on earth it might be who could knock at a door so loudly, and opening it discovered a dwarf.

The dwarf looked just as confused to see the hobbit as Frodo was to see a dwarf standing on the doorstep. The dwarf recovered first.

“Bofur, at your service,” said the dwarf, bowing low.

“Frodo Baggins… at yours,” Frodo replied hesitantly.

“Baggins!” Bofur repeated in surprise as he stepped inside. “He never said he’d had a son. Mind you, it’s becoming more and more difficult to get a message across the Misty Mountains these days, I can tell you.”

Frodo could only nod in agreement, staring in disbelief as the dwarf placed his hat on a coat peg and his axe in the umbrella stand.

Bofur seemed to already know his way around Bag End and was soon sat in the best chair in the parlour by the fireplace. “So, what time is tea?”

“Um…” Frodo stammered, quite surprised that the dwarf was inviting himself to tea. “Normally around four in the afternoon, by Shire reckoning-”

“Splendid! And do you mind me asking if you throw in a few scones as well, aye that would be grand!” Bofur nodded. Frodo could do nothing more than nod along with him.

“I’m sorry, but- do I know you?” Frodo asked.

“No,” said Bofur, smiling widely.

“Please excuse me.” Frodo stepped out into the hallway. What would Bilbo think when he got back and found a grubby dwarf sitting in his favourite chair by the fire? At that moment Frodo heard the sound of the front door being opened and turned to see Bilbo returning.

“Frodo- my lad, what’s wrong?” Bilbo asked as Frodo rushed towards him.

“There’s a strange fellow who’s just come in and is sitting in the parlour,” Frodo said, his eyes wide.

For some reason Bilbo’s hand jumped straight to his waistcoat pocket. “What strange fellow?” he asked slowly. Frodo led him through to the parlour, hesitating in the doorway. The dwarf in the chair turned, saw Bilbo and gave a cry of recognition.

“Bofur!” Bilbo cried back, moving forward to hug the dwarf in greeting. “How are you? Your hair is silver! How’s Bifur and Bombur and everybody? I hope you didn’t get lost now the mark has gone from the door!”

“Steady on; your hair is looking pretty white too!” Bofur laughed. “And dare I ask if you’ve been on any more adventures recently?”

“I meant to go back to the mountain, I really did,” said Bilbo in earnest.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but your son is staring at us,” Bofur nodded to where Frodo was standing transfixed.

“Oh, no, this is my nephew, he’s now living with me- Frodo, this is Bofur, one of the 13 dwarves I journeyed with on my quest as a burglar to the Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo introduced grandly. Bofur bowed low again and Frodo now remembered his uncle’s stories of the dragon hoard far over the Misty Mountains. It seemed so obvious that was who this was.

“And I can’t help but remember that he did offer me tea,” Bofur winked.

“Of course,” Bilbo nodded. “Frodo, would you?”

The rest of the afternoon was taken up by Frodo preparing a large pot of tea and baking several batches of cakes (dwarves certainly did have an appetite) while Bilbo and Bofur caught up on all the happenings from both sides of the Misty Mountains (apparently someone called Balin, Oin and Ori had taken back Moria, for all it meant to Frodo) and reminisced about old times.

Sometime around supper there was finally a break in their talking while Bofur used the toilet and Bilbo found Frodo washing plates in the kitchen.

“Crickey, I wasn’t expecting to see old Bofur again!” Bilbo laughed.

“Is everyday like this?” Frodo asked. If it was this was going to take some getting used to.

“Not everyday,” said Bilbo, just as there was another knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frodo getting used to the comings and goings of strange people when living with Uncle Bilbo! (I know it's not technically Father and Son but they still have a great relationship going on)  
> There's no real order to how I'm posting these chapters, just however seems right.   
> As ever, feedback is appreciated! Marcella McKenzie x


	2. Chapter 2

Back in a time when Erebor had been at the height of its power with creations of gold and silver flowing out of the doors, the young Prince Thorin was wandering wistfully through the high stone chambers. His battle training with Dwalin had finished for the day and found himself with nothing that he needed to do. It wasn’t that he was bored- there was plenty that he could be supervising down in the mines but that would only be supervising- it had been established long ago that he would never work as a miner. Thorin was singled out as the future King under the Mountain. But until that time came there was little more he could do to prepare that day.

The tunnels under the mountain were homely for a dwarf yet could still prove stifling at times and it crossed his mind to go to the gate with the excuse to check on Balin and the guards in order to get some air when walking up a set of stairs Thorin heard familiar laughter from one of the doorways. As he got closer he recognised it as belonging to his brother Frerin and his sister Dis, along with Thror- the current King under the Mountain and his grandfather.

They seemed to be having lots of fun playing their game. Frerin had got hold of Thror’s gold crown and was waving it in the air, saying he was the new King under the Mountain.

Frerin danced nimbly out of reach, his gold braids bouncing in glee while Dis attempted to hinder Thror from getting it back by wrapping her tiny arms around one of his legs. It seemed to work for a moment before Thror bent down and scooped the young dwarf girl up into his hands and swung her over his head. Frerin then jumped onto his back in an attempt to rescue his sister.

It looked like enormous fun and Thorin was just about to run in to their aid when he felt a stern hand on his shoulder pulling him back. Looking around he saw his father Prince Thrain.

Thrain was looking at the scene before them with an expression of deep irritation. He turned away, his hand on Thorin’s shoulder steering him along and guiding him down another corridor, away from his siblings and grandfather.

“Thror is becoming ever more doting these days,” Thrain said. “People will be starting to think he is showing weakness.”

Thrain looked down at Thorin. He was obviously supposed to agree with this. “Yes dad,” Thorin said.

“A dwarf openly showing that that much affection for something other than gold? It’s unheard of!” Thrain continued. “Majesty, Thorin. Stern, solemn majesty. That’s what future kings need.”

“Sure dad,” Thorin mumbled. Thrain beamed.

“I knew you would understand,” said Thrain. “Now come with me- there is something I wish to show you.”

His hand remaining on Thorin’s shoulder, Thrain guided him to the throne room, a large open room with high ceilings and walls covered with fine, long tapestries. The floor disappeared on either side leaving a walkway leading to the throne that stood regally at the top of a podium, with room on either side for the royal family to stand flanking their King.

“The throne of the King under the Mountain,” Thrain stated with a grand gesture. “Set in place by Thror after he colonised this Lonely Mountain following attacks by the cold-drakes on the Grey Mountains in the north. Here it stands and here it will ever stand as the symbol of the leader of Durin’s folk.”

Thorin had heard this lecture from his father many times and managed not to roll his eyes at the speech. He was fairly certain his father hadn’t been around at the time of the cold-drakes, but it was a speech that his father often recited with fondness. His father continued regardless.

“One day it will be my time to sit upon the throne as Thrain II,” he said (Thorin couldn’t help but feel that the years of waiting were starting to show on his father- his hair and great beard was greying and lines showing on his forehead). “And when my time is over the line will fall to you.”

Thorin knew this. This is what he was constantly being prepared for and told by the other dwarves. Thrain hesitated before turning to Thorin.

“Would you like to sit in it?”

Thorin looked up at his father with great surprise. “What?” None but the King under the Mountain was allowed to sit upon the throne.

“Would you like to sit on it?” Thrain repeated, before lifting Thorin by the waist and sitting him firmly upon the throne. It was make for a much wider (or perhaps older) dwarf, his feet barely touched the floor and Thorin felt quite swamped by it. He was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to be there either.

“But, I don’t understand…” he stammered. Thrain smiled.

“My father -your grandfather- had this same conversation with me when I was you age,” said Thrain, his eyes glittering in remembrance. “He sat me on his throne and said to me ‘Son, one day all of this kingdom will belong to you. All of its wealth and all of its fair people’. How does it feel?”

Thorin shifted himself slightly in the throne. “Big,” he admitted.

Thrain laughed at this. “Yes, I suppose it is rather. There is so much responsibility placed on the King, to look after and do what is right by our people. But I tell you now- so long as there is gold that can be mined and traded then that will ensure your reign is a happy one.”

Thorin considered this. So recently it seemed his father had been placing more worth upon the gold than on those dwarves around him. So recently Thrain had turned down a deal with the wood elves based on how much gold would be required from the dwarves that he was unwilling to part with.

He remembered also how so recently Thror had been playing with Frerin and Dis as though he had no care in the world, and certainly not for the crown or gold. “What about good cheer and home?” Thorin asked.

“Well… there is some credit for those things,” Thrain replied hesitantly. “Certainly a drought of ale and a good feast can go a long way, but so long as you hold the gold you hold the power over this land.”

This did not seem right to Thorin. He knew then, sat upon the throne of the King under the Mountain, this would be what gold would do to him, and he knew he did not want to be that kind of King. It seemed to him that if more dwarves would value home above gold this mountain would be a merrier place. That was the kind of King he wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by Wolfanita's artwork here- http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-Hobbit-Daddy-Part-One-Lesson-for-Life-450289155  
> A young Thorin already having to consider what kind of King he wants to grow to be, though things didn't quite go to plan (inspired by Thorin's final speech to Bilbo).


	3. Chapter 3

Bard sighed as he walked wearily along the familiar planked pathways of Lake-town. It hadn’t been a long time that he had been out, but it felt like a long time away from his home- bad autumn weather had hindered his progress to the spot where the barrels sent back from the realm of the wood elves were caught by a natural stony curve of the hills. By the time he had got there the tide had risen, causing the barrels to drift further downstream so he had to search more to collect all the barrels. It had been going well until while he had been leaning over the edge of his low barge a strong gust caused the barge to tilt wildly and thrown him overboard. Luckily the weather was still warm but the cold wind had caught his chest.

After that he had been to see the fishermen guild on the lake that lay just on the outskirts of Lake-town. It seemed that the fishing that day had been hindered by the same bad weather that had affected Bard. Despite this he was able to haggle a carp for dinner that night, though it had still cost him an arm and a leg.

On returning to Lake-town with the barrels Bard had then been further delayed by the oh-so-delightful Alfrid, the slimy servant to the Master of Lake-town who first tried to claim that the toll had risen then had insisted on the filling in of additional forms before he should be allowed through the toll gate.

Bard had argued this to his great success, paying only the necessary amount and filling in only the original amount of paperwork which annoyed Alfrid greatly though gave Bard some satisfaction to see him sulking away back to his Master.

Despite this small success, Bard felt irritated. The people in charge of this town were corrupt and impotent. They had no idea what the population needed- certainly the money from the toll gate should be reinvested somewhere and plenty of places needed renovation. It was with this lingering mood from the day that Bard had docked his boat and walked up the steps to his house, the wood creaking under foot- that would need to be looked at soon. He nodded to the two fishermen that frequented the spot outside his house before opening the front door.

Bard had a brief glimpse of his simple wooden home before he was tackled around the waist by what felt like three dwarves!

“Da!” the three ‘dwarves’ squealed, clinging to his midriff.

He gasped as the wind was knocked from his lungs and looking down saw his son Bain and two daughters Sigrid and Tilda. It seemed they had been waiting by the door ready to ambush him when he got home!

Bain, Sigrid and Tilda instantly started relaying to him the events of their day, all talking at once.

“Woah, woah,” Bard laughed. “One at a time!”

“Why are you so wet Da?” Sigrid asked, the damp from his coat soaking through into her dress.

“The weather decided that I should go for a little swim,” Bard explained, his voice drenched in sarcasm. At this Bain and Sigrid each grabbed one of his arms and pulled him into their house, Tilda still clung around his waist.

“Da, Da!” Bain cried, tugging hard on Bard’s arm. “Look- Hilda’s here!”

Sure enough standing by the table was Hilda Bianca. She was seen as a hard businesswoman but more common sense than the people in the Master’s house put together, Master, servants and all.

“Hello Hilda,” Bard said politely.

“Hello Bard,” Hilda replied in her gruff tones, though the corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

“Have you been looking after my children?” Bard asked, finally relenting to Tilda’s pleas and pulling her up into his arms.

“Only for a while after I’d delivered your King’s Foil,” she explained. And sure enough on the table was enough of the weed to keep the pigs going for at least a week. “They’re well behaved but they insisted on looking out of the window for you.”

“But I told you I might not have been home for some nights.” Bain and Sigrid looked down at their feet.

“We know,” Bain muttered. “But we missed you.”

“It seems you are much sought after,” Hilda said. “You are the only thing they would talk about the whole time I’ve been here.”

Bard pursed his lips and stared at his three children. They were the thing that made going away to work so difficult, the ones he thought of most while away (no matter how bad things got with the Master he always made an effort not to let him be the thing that concerned his mind the most) and the ones that he looked forward to seeing most when he returned.

“I must be off,” Hilda was saying, but Bard was only half listening. “If you ever need me to check on these little heroes again just let me know. And I’ll see you at Wednesday’s meeting.”

“We’ll see you later,” Bard nodded. Hilda left and Bain and Sigrid swarmed him again.

“Da, I went to see Brunhilda on the market today,” Sigrid said. “She was impressed with my needle work so she says she wants me to sew some bits for her to sell-”

“I managed to haggle a crate of crabs,” Bain said, competing with his sister. “I have to work for those two fishermen outside for a day next week, but the size of it Da-”

“My tooth wobbled when I ate lunch today Da!” Tilda cried in his ear, opening her mouth wide and flicking her wobbly tooth with her tongue.

“My my, you have all been so busy!” was all Bard could say. It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Wolfanita's artwork here- http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-Hobbit-Daddy-Part-Three-Much-Sought-After-453535356  
> Life in Lake-town must be long and hard. so it's good to have something to go home to.


	4. Chapter 4

In the forest of Mirkwood the wood elves would often make merry and feast out underneath the light of the stars, and this was one such night. They poured forth from the halls of Thranduil and gathered on the outskirts of the woodland realm. Fires were lit and a great feast was prepared in the clearing.

The elven King Thranduil had special reason for celebrating that night as it was the first feast to be attended by his son- Prince Legolas. The young prince was seated on the right hand side of his father, wearing an elegant robe of silver which gathered at his feet along with a simple coronet placed delicately on his brow and his blonde hair braided out of his face. The elves agreed he looked every bit a miniature version of the King.

The feast lasted long into the night with many songs sung, much food eaten and several large barrels of wine consumed as the elves celebrated the starlight and the presence of the Prince.

Legolas himself sat through much of the feast, making polite conversation when spoken to but all the while not leaving his father’s side. There were no others there that were his age, the youngest elf after him being four decades older. He grew steadily bored until he started throwing his dining knife at moths which were gathering around the torches. He had a very good aim, and soon he had a small crowd of elves around him, cheering each time he hit one.

Thranduil scowled in disagreement when he saw what his son was up to.

“Stop that, Legolas,” he murmured in a soft tone, holding Legolas’ arm and steering him back to his seat.

“But I’m bored Ada,” said Legolas, his eyes wide. “When can we go home?”

“When the feast has finished,” Thranduil replied, lifting Legolas up and sitting him on his lap.

“And when will that be?” Legolas asked.

“When all the stars have gone to sleep,” Thranduil explained. “We will not be having another feast like this until after winter so you should enjoy being outside in the forest for now.”

Legolas pouted before climbing off of his father’s lap. Within five minutes he was back to throwing knives at the moths, this time with a much larger crowd gathered who were all cheering drunkenly. Thranduil marched over to him.

“Your son does have a jolly good aim,” one elf remarked to him.

“He would make a spectacular guardsman,” remarked another. Thranduil frowned. He did not appreciate being given career advice for his son by a lowly Silvan elf.

“I think our Prince Legolas is getting tired,” the king remarked in a mock kind fashion. “It’s time he went home to bed.”

Legolas’ eyes were wide with pleading- he had just started to enjoy himself again, but Thranduil was having none of it. He summoned two of his royal guard and gave them instruction to escort the Prince back to his chambers.

“It’s time you went to bed Legolas. Say goodnight to your people,” Thranduil prompted as he made to leave.

Legolas turned back to the party of elves and said- “I bid you goodnight, and though I leave you now I wish you joys in your continued merry making.” He gave a short bow after giving the formal statement which his father had taught him earlier that day and allowed himself to be escorted home by his guards.

Though some elves took this as their excuse to leave as well, the feast continued for some time after that until long past midnight when a number of the forest guards passed out from not being able to hold their wine. Borne on the shoulders of other elves still able to stand, the party made its steady way back to the halls of Thranduil.

The elves made their way back to their own chambers and fell asleep straight away, but after he had changed into a simple red gown Thranduil sat awake reading a book and drinking one last glass of wine. He considered Legolas’ behaviour that night- he had been very well behaved to start off with but how he had acted when he had became bored was very unprincely. Then again he was still young and hadn’t been drinking; perhaps these were just issues which would improve with age…

As he took a sip of wine Thranduil felt a small hand tug at the elbow of his robe. Glancing over he sees Legolas standing there in his green pyjamas.

“I told you to go to bed Legolas,” said Thranduil.

“But there’s a spider sitting on my pillow Ada,” said Legolas, biting his lip.

Thranduil looked down at him son. He had those big unblinking eyes which were again pleading with him. Sighing, he put his wine down, closed the book and stood up.

“I can’t believe that my son is afraid of one tiny little spider,” Thranduil muttered, guiding Legolas back to his chambers. However when he got there he realised how found Legolas’ concerns were- it was one of the Mirkwood spiders that had been festering in the forest that had evidently found its way into the halls while all the elves had been at the feast.

Thranduil stopped in his tracks at the sight of it. It was true that it was sleeping, its black eyes covered by furry lids, and its body took up half of the bed. Backing out into the corridor, he took a bow from the wall along with an arrow, strung it, stepped back into the room and shot the creature between the eyes. The spider woke and gave an almighty jerk before its legs curled up underneath it.

“There we are,” he declared, shifting the body off of the bed and rolling it out into the hallway. He thought he had handled that rather well. Going back into the chamber he picked up Legolas and laid him in his now spider-free bed.

“Are you able to take care of any more spiders that you find now?” Thranduil asked Legolas, handing him the bow.

“Yes Ada,” said his son, snuggling down into his covers.

Thranduil put his arm around him. “Then sleep now; let not the enemies of this world give you any trouble this night or in your lifetime- in these walls you are safe, my son.”

Bending down he kissed Legolas on the top of the head.

“Love you Ada,” said Legolas in a small voice.

“I love you too,” Thranduil smiled. “And who else?”

“Love you Ama,” Legolas added, his head looking up to the window, trying to see his mother who was surely looking down on them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Wolfanita's artwork here- http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-Hobbit-Daddy-Part-Four-Childish-Fears-453913836  
> Legolas just seems so cute young, referring to Thranduil as Ada (and Ama for his mum!) I know Thranduil didn't really talk about her but I like to think he reminded Legolas that she did love them.


	5. Chapter 5

The skies were clear and the crescent moon cast just enough light over the lands of the Rhovanion- an ideal night for warg riding.

It was traditional for orcs to teach their spawn how to ride the first time, much like the humans taught their children how to ride horses, and Azog the Defiler was no exception to this rule.

Azog had only one surviving son- Bolg. He was the only survivor due to the fact that he had killed all of his other siblings; another great orc tradition. It meant that the strongest of the spawn survived with the best chance later in battle and those that didn’t survive became fresh meat. The adults looked forward to these reaping feasts and Bolg’s had been particularly satisfying regarding how much meat had been on offer (it was often wondered if some of those he’d beheaded had actually been his siblings or had just got in the way). It was well known that after the feast so much blood had remained untouched that Bolg had sat down and painted out artwork on the walls of the cave depicting his father holding aloft the head of the previous dwarf king Thror. Azog had been most proud.

His painting days now over, Bolg was now fully trained in combat and large enough to ride a warg- and certainly keen to do so in order to start hunting in the lands over the edge of the wild.

For this reason Azog now led Bolg out of the eastern gate of Moria (for despite the dwarves best efforts Moria still remained home to the orcs) and up the Drimrill Dale to the agreed meeting point. The sight of the two white orcs striding side by side was quite a sight, if anybody had been brave enough to hang around to see it.

“The wargs are naturally unruly and dim,” Azog was growling in an undertone to Bolg who was doing his best to imitate his father’s impressive walking stance- broad shoulders and lengthy strides. “Yours might try to mess you around, decide it has a mind of its own and go running off but you must remind it who its master is. Treat it with a firm and unforgiving hand. Trust will come later.”

Bolg looked blankly up at Azog, his mouth revealing two rows of brick-like teeth and his grey eyes wide.

“And stop gawping!” Azog snapped, increasing his strides. In addition to his hulking figure and merciless nature Bolg could be intelligent in his tactics, yet his tendency to gawp made him look as dim-witted as the average goblin. He had an excellent thirst for blood but if armies did not look upon him as a leader then Azog wondered if he would ever be ready to join the ranks of the Necromancer’s armies.

They reached a sheltered pine forest on the edge of which two wargs were waiting for them, snapping their teeth in anticipation. One of them was Azog’s own white warg- the Matriarch of the Gundabad Wargs whom Azog had long ago formed a partnership with, each dealing with the others enemies should they ever cross their paths. It was with her that Azog had agreed on this partnership for their spawn.

On spying the pair of orcs the Warg Matriarch stopped her snapping and padded up to them, bowing her head in respect to Azog.

“I trust you had no difficulties getting here?” she growled.

“None, though it would be a fine night to deal with some forest men,” Azog replied, touching his clawed left hand to his chest in respect.

The Warg Matriarch snarled in agreement. “My cub.”

The smaller grey warg padded up from behind her, giving a threatening snarl before bowing its head to them both.

“Bolg,” Azog said. Bolg stepped forward and hit his left fist to his chest. The grey warg stared at him and him back at it. These initial moments were crucial in asserting dominance and neither backed down.

Azog showed Bolg how to fix a simple leather harness to the warg for him to sit on, got him mounted before mounting his own warg and setting off across the open plains. The air was cool and the land was empty and they were soon racing between the Anduin back to the feet of the Misty Mountains. Azog thought it was going well until there was a loud bark from behind him. Turning, he saw the grey warg leaping out of control and Bolg on the ground.

“What happened?” Azog and the Warg Matriarch both barked.

“He was tugging on my fur,” the grey warg barked defensively. Bolg sat up on the ground and Azog saw blood streaming from his left eye. Climbing down from his warg Azog inspected his spawn’s eye. The damage seemed irreparable- Bolg would be forever blind in that eye.

The Warg Matriarch saw this too and bit her son’s neck hard, causing it to yelp like a little pup.

“Your eye,” Azog growled low to Bolg.

“It’s fine, I want to continue” Bolg started but swayed violently. Azog put his hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Azog turned back to the Warg Matriarch but as he did so he noticed movement not far away on the mountain- a pair of dwarves were spying on them. The Matriarch followed his gaze and grunted, her mouth contracting into a smile which Azog returned. Dwarf-hunting was in their blood and they were soon storming up the roots of the mountain to where they were hidden.

The dwarves were not heavily armed but they weren’t completely unaware. Nevertheless Azog managed to take out the first one with a powerful swing of his claw, the momentum giving the blow extra emphasis and slicing the dwarf’s neck. The other dwarf had taken this as his chance to run but before he could get far Bolg and the grey warg were back in the game. Bolg had wrapped a length of leather from his trousers around his eye to control the bleeding and was ablt to cut off the dwarf’s escape before mimicking his father’s swing with a heavy branch. His aim was slightly off due to being unused to attacking from a warg and now being blind in one eye, but the dwarf still sailed through the air, landed hard and did not get up.

Azog climbed off the Matriarch and marched over to the dwarf, grabbing him by the neck. “Any more dwarf scum around these parts?” he snarled in its face.

The dwarf managed to stammer “no,” so Azog stepped back and allowed Bolg to finish off the creature.

The rest of the night was taken up by the pack stripping down the dwarves and feasting on their corpses, splitting up the shares. Azog watched as Bolg tossed chunks of meat to his grey warg and felt comfortable that he had completed his duty in the partnering of his spawn and the continuation of his thirst for dwarf blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly inspired by Wolfanita's artwork here- http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-Hobbit-Daddy-Part-Two-Real-Artist-451969569  
> It seemed odd for Azog and Bolg to spend family time together, I imagine it would have been quite difficult growing up in Orc-infested Moria!


	6. Chapter 6

Rohan was the home of the horse-lords, and as such it was necessary that all men were fit to be called for battle at any time, especially as the Wild Men were growing ever more restless on the edge of their lands. King Théoden had been at the head of the riders visiting each town and village within his lands, more than just to inspect the men but also because it gave his people hope to see him. He showed great care for them, but now he was glad to be home in Edoras.

The marshals of the Riders of Rohan led their horses to the stables and got them settled, Théoden leaving his horse in the capable hands of his commander Grimbold and made to return to Meduseld, the Golden Hall.

As he walked up the familiar steps he nodded to Háma who opened the doors wide for the King.

“The King makes a triumphant return,” a voice mused from the shadow and turning Théoden saw his chief advisor Grima skulk into view. He disliked Grima ( _Wormtongue_ was the name that he had adopted when referring to him to others in his court, and the name quickly caught on) but the advisor came on high recommendation from Saruman and Théoden was keen to keep favour with the wizard on their doorstep.

“You have no need to trouble yourself, Grima,” Théoden replied. “All is well within these lands, unless you have news from other borders?”

“Ill news deserves to remain on the doorstep with ill guests,” Grima riddled and Théoden frowned. Had that meant there had been news while he had been away? But he found himself not worrying.

Shaking his head clear Théoden looked around the hall. “And where is my son Théodred?”

“Your son is out playing on the streets,” Grima said. “Hardly a fitting pastime for a Prince.”

Théoden wanted to tell him to keep his snide comments to himself, but found himself unable to argue. Instead he turned on his heels and headed back out of the door. Just being around that slimy advisor was often enough to make him feel ill. Though he had been out in it all day the cool air came as a relief. He hadn’t even realised he’d been feeling hot.

The more he walked the clearer his head became. Théoden wondered; was there perhaps something in Grima’s words which rang true which he was now only running away from, but he couldn’t bring himself to face it?

His thoughts were brought back down to earth by the laughter of children on the path ahead- he wasn’t sure what game they were playing but they were kicking up a fair amount of dirt and mud in the process. Amongst them Théoden recognised his own son Théodred and his nephew and ward Éomer.

As the King approached then, the other children spotted him and ran off giggling, leaving the two royal children to face the music. They both stood there looking sheepish.

“Are you boys having fun?” Théoden asked, a smile playing on his face.

“Yes father,” Théodred replied.

“Yes uncle,” Éomer nodded. They were both still very young and they hadn’t caused any harm so Théoden couldn’t bring himself to be mad at them.

As he watched one of the children came running back, covered in mud from the bottom of her skirt to the top of her straw-coloured hair. Théoden bent down and wiped some of the mud from her face.

“I know your face!” he declared and Éowyn beamed back up at him. She did look ever so much like her mother- the King’s younger sister. “Were you playing with the rough boys?”

“They weren’t giving me any trouble,” Éowyn replied. “If they had I’d have cut them open with your big sword!”

Théoden laughed and scooped up Éowyn into his arms- she was just small enough to still be able to lift whereas Éomer and Théodred had to trot along in his wake.

“It’s not right for princes and princesses of the realm to fight in the streets,” he told them. “You have to make a better example.”

“I’m sorry father, we got bored waiting for your return,” Théodred said earnestly.

“I was away rather long,” Théoden admitted.

“Will you be going away again?” little Éowyn looked up at him with big eyes.

“Not for a while, no. Unless there are any emergencies,” Théoden promised. Éowyn hugged his neck while Théodred and Éomer clung to his waist and leg so that he was unable to move. A peasant glanced at them and he could only smile back.

“Come on now, less of that,” he said eventually, prising himself free of them and leading them all back up to Meduseld. After a bath for all of them and when they were all dressed in clean clothes Théoden addressed the three children.

“I think it is definitely time that all of you were taught some skill in combat,” Théoden said wisely.

“Does that mean that we’ll be joining the Riders of Rohan?” Éomer asked.

“Not just yet, but perhaps one day when your training is complete,” Théoden nodded.

“Pardon me for intruding, but it hardly seems right for a white lady to worry herself with swords and shields.”

Grima was stood in the door to the hallway and had been listening the whole time. The smile disappeared from Éowyn’s face on seeing him and was replaced with one of disgust at his suggestion. Even on a child’s face it was a powerful look.

“Snake!” she spat at him. Théoden held up a hand to them both.

“I will not deny my niece the same rights as any man,” he said.

Grima looked horrified. “But-”

“My nephew and my niece are in my ward; therefore it is up to me how I bring them up. And Éowyn should be given the same chances as her brother and cousin.”

The subject was closed. Grima headed out of the door and Théoden gave Éowyn a hug. “Don’t worry about old snake,” he told her.

“Wormtongue!” Éowyn smiled and Théoden laughed.

Though Éowyn learned swordsmanship and became good at it just as the King had said, Théoden fell ill for some time after that. He wondered if this might be a sign that perhaps the little white lady should not have been given a sword, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it was the right thing to do, regardless of people’s scorn on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not really Father and Daughter, but I love the relationship that Theoden and Eowyn have!  
> I also put in a few sneaky hints at the beginnings of Saruman's spell over Theoden ;)


	7. Chapter 7

“You need a job, my lad.”

Samwise Gamgee rolled his eyes as his father Hamfast walked him down Bagshot Row. His old Gaffer (as the other hobbits also referred to him) had been going on about a job for his for some time and it seemed that day was finally here.

There were a number of jobs open to respectable hobbits- farmers, fishermen, cooks. His four siblings had all been given the same treatment (only Marigold was still too young) and Samwise was set to follow in Hamfast’s footsteps as a gardener. He was already being marched down to Bag End to offer his services to one of his Gaffer’s best clients- Bilbo Baggins.

Bilbo had been Sam’s tutor for many years, teaching him reading, writing and all sorts of stories about elves, dragons and far off worlds. His father found it annoying when Sam would recount these stories to him in the evening, but they had a way of staying in Sam’s mind. He often dreamed of adventures to find the elves and hoped to one day spy an Oliphaunt (despite reassurance that they were extinct).

“And remember your manners, he is your employer now and you must address him as Mister Bilbo now,” his old Gaffer said, pointing a finger at him.

Hamfast knocked on the green door at Bag End and it was opened by Bilbo himself.                     

“Ah!” Bilbo cried in mock surprise. “Hamfast, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hello Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast said formally. “I’m just here to drop off my son Samwise to do a bit of your gardening.”

“Oh, splendid,” Bilbo declared, rubbing his hands together. “Well, you know where all the bits are to get yourself sorted, don’t you?” Sam nodded. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

“I’ll be back later in the afternoon,” Hamfast said, walking down the path and Bilbo closed the front door, leaving Samwise standing there unsure of what to do. After a moment he came to his senses and gathered some equipment from a small cellar-like space under the hobbit hole and made a start.

The garden at Bag End was simple but very well kept and Sam was soon hard at work pruning the bushes and heaping fertiliser onto the flowerbeds. He had worked up quite a sweat by the time the sun was high in the sky.

“Hello Sam!”

Sam spun around in alarm, the trowel in his hand, and saw stood behind him was Bilbo’s nephew and his own good friend Frodo Baggins.

“Hello,” Sam smiled widely.

“Are you working for Bilbo now?” Frodo asked.

“Indeed I am, I’m your new gardener,” Sam replied. “And that means I must now address you as Mister Frodo.”

Frodo laughed. “There really is no need for that Sam-”

“Oh but there is,” Sam reassured him. “My old gaffer said so.”

Frodo pursed his lips before smiling. “Well, if you insist. But if you’re allowed to make plans with your employer then I’m meeting Merry and Pippin at the Green Dragon tonight, you and Hamfast are more than welcome to join us.”

“Thank you Mister Frodo,” Sam said. Frodo shook his head, smiling again, before going back inside. Samwise continued going long into the afternoon until Mister Bilbo himself came out, declared what a fantastic job he had done, paid him for the day and dismissed him.

Sam returned his own hobbit hole at number 3 Bagshot Row and looking down saw that he was covered in grass stains and dirt, but when he considered the time he just threw on a fresh shirt and splashed some water on his face to get rid of most of the dirt. Grabbing his old gaffer (who could never say no to a half pint) they made their way down to the Green Dragon by the stream.

Frodo was already there, along with Merry and Pippin who were dancing on the tables entertaining the hobbits. Sam and Hamfast sat themselves at a table nd they were soon swarmed by folk getting advice on their gardening. Hamfast Gamgee was after all the local expert in growing potatoes.

“Go and get us a round son,” Hamfast said to Sam.

Sam got up and went to the bar to order.

“Could I get two half pints please,” Sam said, riffling through his pockets for change.

“Coming right up,” said a surprise voice and looking up Sam found himself staring at Rosie Cotton, his childhood friend. Rosie beamed at Sam but he could only gawp.

“Rosie!” he gasped, suddenly aware of quite how filthy he was. He hid his grubby fingernails in his pocket and prayed she wouldn’t notice the grass stains. “What are you doing here?”

“My father decided it was time I should get a job,” Rosie explained. “He spoke to my uncle Brown and he agreed to let me work behind the bar.”

Sam nodded, finally able to shut his mouth. They had been friends for a long time, their families were very close and it was expected among the adults that they would one day be wed, though when they head been little they had both been repulsed by the idea but that didn’t stop them playing in the stream with their brothers and sisters by the Cotton’s farm. Lately though Sam could barely meet her eyes.

As Rosie poured out the pints she gestured over to where Sam had been sitting. “I see my father has cornered your old gaffer!”

Sure enough Farmer Tom Cotton was showing off his pumpkin to Hamfast who made an effort to measure it. Sam muttered “thanks,” took the drinks and went to sit back down. Drinking his beer he looked back at Rosie who had struck up a conversation with another customer. Sam suddenly felt the convulsion to get her attention.

Standing up, he climbed onto the table where Merry and Pippin were and joined in with their dancing and singing. It was going well -the whole bar had turned to look at them, Rosie included- until Sam lost his footing and slipped off the table.

He felt a pain in his head and the room swam. Someone close to him asked “Sam, are you alright?” and Rosie’s curls swam into view. Next he knew a hand was on his shoulder, lifting him out into the open air. Steadying himself against the wall he saw Hamfast standing in front of him.

“What on earth were you up to, lad?” his old gaffer asked incredulously.

“I- I only thought-” Sam stammered, trying to remember. “I dunno, I just wanted to do something to get Rosie’s attention-”

“Oh dear,” Hamfast sighed. “I’ve seen this coming on for some years. You fancy her, don’t you?” Sam nodded. It seemed so obvious now.

“You don’t need to dance on tables or make any big show to get her attention,” Hamfast continued. “It’s obvious to look at that she likes you, just be yourself and you will be fine with her. Tell me who’s right…”

Sam smiled. “My old gaffer.”

“And that’s why we called you ‘Samwise’. Listen to your old gaffer!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We only see Sam's old Gaffer and hear about him in passing in the films, but it was mentioned that they were very close to the Cottons already. I can imagine some hobbits being a bit pushy with their children about getting them apprenticeships!


	8. Chapter 8

“Have you cleaned your chambers?”

“Yes.”

“Have you left your pick axe set nicely?”

“Yes.”

“Have you brushed your teeth?”

“I’m not a child anymore!”

Gimli flinched away from his mother who was absently plaiting his red hair. She always got this way when she was anxious.

“I’m seventy-nine; I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,” Gimli grunted.

“That’s still very young… for a dwarf,” his mother replied in a ruffled way.

“Kili was only seventy-seven when he went on the quest for this mountain,” he reasoned, gesturing around him at their new home in Erebor. His mother and father had not allowed Gimli to join the dwarves on their quest as he had been too young, but now fifteen years later they were reaping the rewards of that quest.

The move from the Blue Mountains back to the Lonely Mountain had been a long one with many dwarves unwilling to leave their new home that Thorin had made for them in Ered Luin.

Gimli’s father Gloin had been among the company of Thorin Oakenshield and one of the first to step back into the Lonely Mountain and had sent for Gimli and his mother as soon as the Battle of the Five Armies had ended. The whole mountain needed extensive work after being inhabited by a dragon (the gold would probably never smell the same again) but after 14 years Erebor was starting to feel homely again with more dwarves returning from Ered Luin and many deciding to stay from the Iron Hills.

Gimli had been very disappointed at being left behind for the reason of being too young and had to make do with hearing Ori’s stories of what had happened after. Even now he was still left out for being “too young”, which included a celebration happening that night in the great halls.

“One day you will be thankful that you are as young looking as you are,” his mother replied, scratching her beard. “And there will be many more chances for great adventures, I’m sure.”

“The greatest one is already behind me,” Gimli replied, shrugging off her attempt to braid his hair again.

“You should go to bed or else you will be too tired to mine tomorrow,” his mother suggested softly.

“I’m waiting up for father.”

He was anxious to hear all of the news of what had happened at the feast and could not wait for the next day. His mother sighed, going to bed herself.

It seemed silly, Gimli thought, that he was allowed to stay up but not go to the feast. He was not in the least bit tired. He was just considering sneaking out when there was a noise at the door.

“Ssh, shhh…”

“They’ll be asleep.”

“Ha ha!”

The voices were familiar and wandering through to the parlour Gimli saw his father Gloin being borne on the shoulders of his uncle Oin. They started when they saw him.

“Gimli… what are you doing up?” Gloin slurred.

“I was waiting for you to come back,” Gimli stared from Gloin to Oin and back again.

“Your father’s had a bit too much to drink is all, lad, I’m just seeing him home” Oin explained, guiding Gloin into their leather and fur settee. He fell onto it and gave an almighty hiccup.

“Fine ale, more please Bilbo!” Gloin called, toasting an imaginary person.

“Will he be alright?” Gimli asked alarmed.

“He’ll be fine, he’ll have a headache in the morning, but as a physician there is nowt more to do,” Oin said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the feast.”

Oin clapped Gimli on the shoulder and left. Gloin stared at Gimli.

“Gimli… my son… were you waiting up for me? Come here my lad!” Gloin pulled Gimli into a large hug and pulled him so that he was sat next to him on the settee. “There’s something… there’s something very important I have to tell you…”

“What it is?”

“You’ve got my hair and your mother’s eyes,” Gloin smiled. “You can take my axe on another adventure any day!”

“Do you mean it?” Gimli had often been caught sneaking off with his father’s axe, making play that he was off on an adventure of his own.

“But I must tell you this,” Gloin pulled his son in close. “If you go on an adventure, and if you ever meet them… never trust an elf.” Gloin nodded in a very serious way. “They’re tricky, they are. We had to deal with them when we were coming back here, you know.”

His father had rarely talked to Gimli about what had happened to him on that quest, rather he had heard most of it from Ori.

“We had to deal with them, we did,” Gloin continued. “’Cause they tried to stop us- them in Rivendell didn’t want us to go no further, they would have put a spell on us if they’d had the chance, but we was too quick for them. And those tricky wood elves in the Mirkwood they held us in their dungeons would you believe! We hadn’t done nowt wrong mind, just passing through and had some trouble with some spiders, but they kept us there all the same. Then when we got back the mountain them same elves turned up and tried to take our treasure -THAT WAS RIGHTFULLY OURS- from us!”

Gimli had nearly jumped out of his skin but his father pulled him back close again.

“That is why I tell you now son to watch out for them. Don’t let them put a spell on you or pull the wool over your eyes, ‘cause they’re tricky they are, and they would. Do I have your word Gimli not to rely on them?”

Gimli nodded and took it to heart, vowing that he would never trust an elf!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Gimli had to get his dislike of elves from somewhere! After all he'd been put through on the road to Erebor it's no wonder Gloin has reservations about elves!


	9. Chapter 9

The sun struggled to break through the clouds above Minas Tirith, making that autumn day far colder than it needed to be. The cold did nothing to improve Faramir’s mood as he looked out over the walls towards the Mountains of Shadow on the borders of Gondor and Mordor, which had always seemed too close for comfort and which he could not escape the view of no matter where he went within the city.

Despite reassurance that the enemy had long since fled those lands, while on his duty as Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, Faramir had encountered some very unsavoury characters who appeared to be journeying towards the Black Gate. The Steward of Gondor -his father Denethor- had rebuffed his worries that afternoon, accusing him of fear-mongering.

His annoyance at his father had driven him to walking the walls, bringing him to the great gate. As he watched a man clad in grey robes and wearing a pointy grey hat rode in on a horse. He stopped and looked down his long grey beard at Faramir.

“Good day to you,” the man said, seeming distracted in his greeting.

“It has been some time since we have had a good day here,” Faramir replied. The man nodded and climbed down from his horse. There was something about him which seemed odd. “Who are you?”

“I am Gandalf the Grey,” the wizard -for that is what he was- responded. “Perhaps you could direct me to the archives?”

Faramir took Gandalf there, talking as they went. “What interest do you have in the archives?” Faramir eventually asked.

“I seek the writings of Isildur,” said Gandalf as they arrived at the room. “It troubles me to know what he wrote of the Ring of Power.”

“Has it come to light?” Faramir questioned, a slight fear in his heart.

“No,” Gandalf shook his head grandly. “It has, according to Saruman, been washed downstream from the Gladden Fields where it was lost, and in the riverbeds is where it shall remain lost.”

Despite this Faramir thought he saw a shadow of doubt in the wizard’s eyes -they seemed too distant. He took his leave of Gandalf, bidding him well on his quest for knowledge, and travelled back towards the guardhouse.

On arriving he saw what was surely a great celebration of some sort taking place. Ale was being passed around all the guards and soldiers and songs were being sung. In the midst of all this was his older brother and Captain of the White Tower Boromir, as ever leading the jubilations. Faramir was about to join them when he saw his father standing next to his brother, causing him to hang back unseen.

“Let’s hear it for Gondor’s finest!” Denethor was shouting, holding Boromir’s arm in the air. The crowds cheered and Boromir looked faintly embarrassed.

After that Denathor disappeared into the crowd and people started to swarm Boromir giving him their blessings. Faramir slowly made his way through the thong to where Boromir stood by the ale barrels.

“Little brother!” Boromir cried when he saw Faramir, smiling widely.

“What is this celebration in aid of?” Faramir smiled, accepting a tankard.

“An army of Haradrim made an attack in the south,” said Boromir, waving a hand dismissively. “A small advance, we saw them off easily. Hardly worth a party but it keeps the morale up, hey little brother?”

“I’m only five years younger than you-”

“And never forget it!” Boromir laughed.

“What were an army of Haradrim doing attacking now?” Faramir frowned. “Is this an attempt at open war? Could they be acting on someone else’s orders?”

Boromir looked confused. “Who else could they be following?”

But as Faramir was about to reply, Denethor appeared at their side.

“What is Gondor’s finest hero doing hiding at his celebrations?” Denethor addressed Boromir before scowling at Faramir. “Can you not go an hour without bringing your fear-mongering upon us all?”

“My ‘fear-mongering’? Then what were Haradrim soldiers doing within our borders?” Faramir shot back.

“There is no need to worry, Boromir has seen them off,” Denethor glowered before his face turned dark again. “You’re as bad as that Istar the guard say is snooping around in the archives-”

“Gandalf,” said Faramir before he could stop himself.

“You’re on first name terms with the wizard? That’s all we need, you a wizard’s pupil,” Denethor scorned. “Up to all sorts of hell-raising, bringing up the ghosts of the past, sticking his nose in where it isn’t wanted.”

“He’s only looking for information concerning Isildur’s Bane,” Faramir all but snapped. Denethor’s eyes went wide at this.

“Is he indeed? Would that imply that it has been located?”

“No, he’s had word that it’s been washed downstream from the Gladden Field’s and into the sea,” said Faramir.

Denethor turned his back on them, muttering to himself. “Yes, it would have been washed down the great river Anduin and down the falls of Rauros towards the sea… meaning it could be right on our doorstep…”

Boromir and Faramir exchanged glances. Their father’s behaviour had been worrying them for a long time now. He had always been estranged, ever since their mother had died, but the years were only leading to make him worse. Sometimes Faramir’s only solace was with his brother. Denethor turned back to Boromir.

“If the weapon of the enemy is within our grasp we must know,” he said, the tips of his fingers together. “My orders to you are to search every bank, every river, every stream and locate the ring of power. Drain the rivers if you have to.”

“Father, do you understand what you are saying?” Boromir looked mortified. “The ring could be anywhere within the river.”

“You would deny your own father?”

“Let me father.” As mad as the task sounded Faramir was willing to take it on if it meant he could escape his father’s scorn for a time.

“No,” was his father’s reply. “A chance for Faramir to show his worth? Even if you were to find it the ring would corrupt the heart of such a lesser man as yourself. I trust this mission only to Boromir. Bring me back this mighty gift, for Gondor.” Boromir hung his head. “As for you,” Denethor turned on Faramir. “Our strength in Osgiliath needs reaffirming. Take 100 men and ensure it is done.”

“That is too few, father,” Faramir was aghast. Osgiliath was their first line of defence against Mordor. He would not sleep sound with so few on the lookout.

“Always your excuses,” Denethor tutted. “You cast a poor reflection on me. Unlike your brother. Find the weapon. Bring the ring to Gondor.”

With a final pat on Boromir’s shoulder, Denethor was gone. The brothers turned to each other.

“Father’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Boromir sighed.

Faramir nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware it's rather similar to the scene from the extended edition, but I kinda struggled with this particular family. And Boromir and Faramir commenting on Denethor's sanity at the end is inspired by Dudley from the first Harry Potter film!


	10. Chapter 10

Elrond could not help but notice how silent Arwen was as they walked through the streets of Minas Tirith towards where everyone was gathering outside the White Tower for the coronation of a new King of Men.

“Why so silent?” he asked softly.

Arwen breathed in heavily. “The ring has been destroyed, Sauron has been defeated, Aragorn will soon be King and all is right in the world.”

“But what's on your mind?”

“No ship can bear me across the sea now. I see that, and though I would not have it any other way this is the start of saying goodbye.”

Elrond looked down at his daughter. Her eyes were blinking back tears and until now she had made no objection to being the only elf to be left behind, choosing Aragorn and a mortal life over her place on the ship to the Undying Lands.

Taking her face in his hands he looked into her eyes. “Do not think on that time now. That is still far off. Today is for Aragorn and you.”

Arwen nodded before hugging Elrond. “I love you Papa,” she whispered.

“I love you too, my Evenstar,” he whispered back.

They carried on up to the topmost tier where the coronation was taking place out in the sun. Much of the city was already there and Elrond positioned himself and his party a short distance away from the White Tower of Ecthelion so that they had a good view of the proceedings.

As the tier filled his party was joined by Legolas who pointed out where the other members of the fellowship were, the hobbits being about halfway back. Then the guards of the citadel moved into place and the coronation began. Elrond heard Arwen’s breath catch at the sight of Aragorn and he couldn’t help but be proud for the man who had been like a son to him. Arwen took a standard from one of the elves and concealed herself behind it.

Gandalf the White placed the crown on Aragorn’s head making him King Elessar of Gondor. He turned to the crowd to say a few words to which they cheered and sung to them Elendil’s Oath before walking out into the masses. He paused when Legolas approached him and they put a hand on each other’s shoulder in friendship.

At that moment Aragorn looked past him and saw Elrond standing there, seeing the standard and he stared as Arwen appeared from behind it, shining in her beauty.

Arwen stepped forward and Elrond knew that this was it. Aragorn took the standard from her hands, lifted her face to his and kissed her in front of everyone there. Elrond smiled awkwardly as they span around, tears gathering in his eyes. Arwen cried as he hugged her, stealing a secret glance at Elrond who smiled back at her. He couldn’t be more proud.

Aragorn then took her by the hand and guided her around, showing to everyone his intention that she should be his queen.

After the coronation Elrond stayed in Minas Tirith for a number of days until the wedding was to take place on Midsummer’s Eve. The night before the wedding Elrond went to King Elessar in his chambers.

“You have been like a father to me in the place of my own,” King Elessar said.

“I have done my best to guide you on the path which you had to take, and here you have reached the end of that path. A new one is now rushing up to meet you feet which I cannot see,” Elrond replied wisely.

“And for Arwen.”

Elrond sighed. “This was her choice. To have a mortal life with you. She has bestowed her place on the ship to Valinor to Frodo.”

“I will love her and look after her with all my heart,” King Elessar promised.

“And I know that with you she will be happy.”

The wedding was a happy one, like the coronation taking place out in the sun on the topmost tier of Minas Tirith. Elrond formerly gave Arwen away, her hand passing from his to King Elessar’s so that she became Queen Arwen. After the ceremony and when she could bear to be away from her husband for a moment Elrond led Arwen to one side.

“I wish you all of the happiness in the world,” Elrond kissed her head. “But I must go soon. I must prepare for the final ships to set sail.”

Arwen bowed her head. “Please give my love to Mama.”

“I will,” Elrond promised. “And know that I love you my most beloved star, my Evenstar.”

“I love you Papa,” Arwen repeated and hugged him before she was summoned back to the celebrations.

Though Elrond’s ship was not to sail for another year at least he still oversaw the departure of many other elves, though too soon the day had come that he was standing at the Grey Havens besides the last elven ship that would sail from Middle Earth.

He greeted his old friend Bilbo and followed him onto the ship and was soon joined by Galadriel, Celeborn, Gandalf and Frodo.

With a graceful lurch the ship moved forward on the wind. He could not help but think it cruel that he should finally be reunited with his beloved wife Celebrian only to be sundered forever from his beloved daughter.

But as they moved out of port a light on the cliffs caught his eye. Looking up he saw his own Evenstar stood there framed against the golden skies. She had come from Gondor to bid him goodbye one last time.

As he watched Arwen waved her hand in farewell and Elrond would do little more than wave back, forever staring back at the cliffs until his Evenstar disappeared over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I was holding back tears when writing this one. I really hope that Arwen would be able to find some way to the Undying Lands to be with her father and mother again after her death.


End file.
